


it gets better (but sometimes it's got to get worse)

by strandedonthemoon



Series: does it ever get better? (a journey through self-harm) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Self-Harm, The Author Can Relate To Peter Parker, The Author Wishes Her Readers The Recovery They Deserve, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, the author is projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17140922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strandedonthemoon/pseuds/strandedonthemoon
Summary: It killed him. His need for perfection wanted the best grades but he couldn't make himself put the effort to get them because he knew it was futile. He was at a constant war with himself.





	it gets better (but sometimes it's got to get worse)

**Author's Note:**

> its 2 am. i didn't read over this. excuse any mistakes i made. i'll go over them tomorrow. can you tell i'm projecting?
> 
> this fic deals with some heavy crap, so TRIGGER WARNING. read with caution please.
> 
> also, MERRY CHRISTMAS... eve? i guess. yeah. MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE. OR HANUKKAH, EVEN THOUGH IT PASSED. OR ANYTHING ELSE CELEBRATED IN DECEMBER
> 
> sorry for my stupid ass. i'm shit at remembering special occasions.

Although Peter is usually the top of his class, that did not come without practice. 

Mainly because school wasn't about learning anymore, in his opinion.

He obviously did love the learning part, and he was good at it, so it should come to no surprise that Peter is a good student who excels in all of his classes, right?

Wrong. 

Because _school isn't about learning anymore._ It's about whether or not you can take the knowledge you learned and apply it to a standardized test in hopes to get the best result possible. 

In theory, that's actually kind of good. It's supposed to help you retain the knowledge you gained as long-term memory-which can help you become a well-rounded problem-solver that thinks outside the box and it builds character and personality- to assist you in succeeding as an individual in the real world.

In practice, it turned education into a competition.

Everyday and constantly, Peter feels the need to put in hours of work over his extra-curricular activities and Spider-Man just to get good grades, and he doesn't even learn anything new. And even when he got good marks, they were never actually good because _there's always room for improvement_ and _one success doesn't mean you've succeeded..._ It always gave Peter a sense of disappointment, even though he knew he should at least be somewhat proud. 

Peter hated being disappointed. If you knew Peter at all, you would know it clawed at his happiness and brought it to dust. He tried to avoid it at all costs. 

With school, however, it was practically unavoidable. 

As time went on, Peter found it harder and harder to study. What was the point of a system that constantly demanded hard work but regrets to give a reward?

It killed him. His need for perfection wanted the best grades but he couldn't make himself put the effort to get them because he knew it was futile. He was at a constant war with himself. 

And that is how Peter found himself at one AM on a random Wednesday of the school year. At a constant war with himself.

He was sitting on his bed, staring at a Chemistry textbook in frustration. He would say he was reading and taking notes, but he wasn't. Not really. 

It wasn't that Peter wasn't trying. He was. But it was like he was touching the words without actually grasping them, so by the time he tried to take notes, he completely forgot what he had just read. 

Peter groaned, closing his textbook. _Fuck_. 

Tears of frustration stung his eyes, angering him even more. He rubbed at his eyes with too much force. When he stopped, black spots danced across his vision that did nothing to stop the tears.

Blinking furiously, Peter got up. He had to go wash his face and get his shit together.  

It was one AM-he didn't want to wake his aunt up-so he slowly walked to bathroom and made sure that the door didn't make a sound as he closed it. 

A sigh escaped his lips when more tears threatened to pour as he washed his face, so he turned off the water and gripped the sink with both hands, trying to gain some control over his emotions. 

Peter looked up and into his reflection. Relentlessly oily, curly hair. Hollow brown eyes. The white of them were no longer present, replaced by a faint pink color. His lips were pressed together in a thin line, and new tear-tracks were beginning to form on his waxy skin. His under-eyes looked grey with fatigue. 

Sometimes, he surprised himself with his reflection. Who he saw staring back at him always looked more tired than he thought he looked. 

He forced himself to smile, but it looked all wrong. It looked out of place, like someone taped his lips to make them look like that. He shook his head to try again, but as he was doing so, a glimmer of reflected light by the cabinet caught his eye. His razor-blade. 

Peter carefully wedged it out from between the cabinet and the wall and turned it over his fingers with morbid curiosity. He was clean for almost two months, but his mind never really drifted away from the razor. The thought always lingered. 

He didn't even try to fight the urge. 

The sleeve of his sweatshirt was rolled up before his brain could really catch up with what he was doing. He pressed the blade down on his skin, then stopped. He hesitated. 

 _Why am I so dependent on this?_ he thought, looking down at his arm. White lines in varying lengths littered his arm from his wrist to his elbow. 

He thought of Flash. Of school and crushing anxiety and perfection. Of crimes he couldn't stop and mistakes he never made up for. Of Ben...

He let the blade tug, and he let the cut bleed.

 

* * *

 

When Peter got out of the bathroom thirty minutes later, his arm bandaged tightly, his phone had received a new voicemail from Tony Stark. Which surprised him, to say the least. Why would the man call him at nearly two in the morning?

A part of Peter was too tired to care, and that part just wanted to curl up in his bed and fall asleep. But the other and larger part of him was curious, and very worried, because _why would the man call him at nearly two in the morning?_

He pressed the voice message, and immediately Tony's voice sounded. "Kid, your vitals are off the charts. Are you okay? Please don't tell me you're still out on patrol, 'cause then I'm going to have to call Aunt May and you know how afraid I am of her. Call me back. I mean it. Don't pretend you didn't see this, too. I know you're awake. "

Peter sighed before looking down at the watch Tony gave him. It was a birthday gift. The watch looked amazing, but it also read his vitals and kept tabs on his body temperature, and any irregularities were immediately reported to Mr. Stark. Great. 

In hindsight, he should've probably taken it off before relapsing and sending himself into a mini-breakdown. 

 _I'm fine,_ he texted Tony. But before he could send a made-up excuse, Tony was calling him. 

"Didn't I tell you to call me, hmm? And your _I'm fine_ B.S doesn't work on me," Mr. Stark's voice said the second he picked up. 

Peter made sure to keep is voice down. "Hello to you, too." His voice came out hoarse.

Something in Tony shifted, and Peter could hear him soften. "You sound terrible, kid."

He rolled his eyes. "Thanks. Really boosted my self-esteem."

"I'm serious."

"Hi Serious. I'm Peter."

 _"Pete."_  

"That is my name, yes."

A sigh escaped Tony's lips. "Peter, can you please talk to me?"

The younger boy blinked. Tony never called him Peter.

Something inside Peter broke at the name change, because suddenly he was crying again. 

"Oh, Pete."

A sob coursed through him. "I-I'm so t-tired, Tony."

"I know you are, kid."

"I'm s-so f-fu-fucking dep-depressed."

"Breathe, kid."

"I-I'm sorry." Broken sobs kept spilling out of him no matter how much he tried to control them. "I-I'm- I'm so sor-sorry."

"Hey, there's nothing to be sorry about."

"B-but th-there _is_."

Peter was met with silence, so he took that as his cue to continue. "I-I r-rel-relapsed."

"Pete..."

Another sob broke through. _"I-I'm so-sorry."_

"Kid, there's noting to be sorry for. Nothing. You hear me? Relapses happen, and _it's okay._ "

Peter nodded, his sobs dissolving into sniffled. He then realized that Tony couldn't see him. "Y-Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Bu-"

"No buts. They happen. It's fine, you hear me?"

"Ye-Yeah."

"Go get some rest, kiddo. You can come over to the lab tomorrow so we can talk about this." His voice was firm but soothing, and Peter couldn't help but smile softly.

"Y-Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Peter let out a shaky breath. "Okay."

"Goodnight, Pete."

"G-Goodnight."

"Oh, and Pete?" A beat. "I sure do love you, kid."

 

* * *

 

 

Peter slept with a relatively dry face.

 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comment? 
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
